


The Scholar and the Swordsman

by Michelle Christian (movies_michelle)



Category: Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:38:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/movies_michelle/pseuds/Michelle%20Christian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scholar walked into a bar. Written for Tosca for Yuletide 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scholar and the Swordsman

"Excuse me," the clipped, sharp tones of a cultured voice sliced through the din, "but is there any chance of getting a glass the pig only sneezed in once?"

The resulting silence was anticipatory. Since most of the discussion that Richard had caught since coming in seemed to be centered around the tall scholar, it was hardly surprising that when he spoke so loudly--and with such intent--all the talk would stop.

They all, including Richard, now waited for Rosalie's response. She was fastidious about the cleanliness of her place, even if she was less so about what and who she served in it.

"If this place isn't good enough for you, master scholar," Rosalie said, stiff with ire, "you're free to slum somewhere else."

"I do apologize," the young man replied quickly, sounding not even remotely apologetic. "I meant no offense to the pig."

Rosalie turned away without another word, but as she passed him, Richard noticed the faintest hint of amusement on her face.

The prospect of someone getting amusingly thrown out dissipating, the rest of the patrons turned back to the entertainment of their own games and drinks.

Richard kept his eye on the man. Tall and slender, he had a long reach which would have been a great advantage against nearly any opponent, if he didn't skewer himself first, which seemed far more likely to Richard. He moved with the deliberateness of a drunk or an overgrown pup who wasn't quite sure where his feet were at all times. Definitely not a swordsman.

Which didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He sat with his shoulders hunched, as if he was trying to protect himself or make himself look smaller, but this was belied by his insulting tone and words pitched to carry. Then there was the student's cloak he wore. Students wore them outside of the university in winter, because most were too poor to afford any heavier, warmer garments. But it was still early autumn, and the air warm enough that he should not need the extra cloak, which could mean it was meant only as a badge, a signal to all what he was.

Put together, they might have seemed mixed signals to some, while others wouldn't necessarily see past the first or second one. Richard knew defenses when he saw them, though. And even sloppy defense could work for a while.

Richard watched him that night, and for the next three, as the student came each night and sat at the same place, drinking, occasionally playing a game of dice (almost always he lost), and rejecting all advances. The brave or stupid tried to approach the student. The girls were always instantly rejected, sometimes coldly, sometimes with great shock as they whispered things into his ears. The men were also roundly turned away or ignored. Each barbed word caught at Richard, ensnaring him and drawing his interest even as it drove the others it was aimed at away. As the student got redder and redder, Richard wondered if he was untried. Surely not; the boy had a beauty that few could resist--once they got past his blade-like tongue.

Rosalie noticed his regard at one point and came over to top up his ale.

"You'll want to keep away from that one," she said _sotto voce_. "There's something not right there."

"There's nothing right there, Rosalie," Richard replied, not remotely deterred by the idea. Rosalie seemed about to say something more, but shut her mouth instead and left without another word.

It was why he liked coming here. Rosalie liked to mother him at times, but she knew when to back away.

So, night after night, Richard watched the strange young man with the porcelain skin and the soft-looking hair come and hide. What he was hiding from, Richard did not know. Most people were hiding from something. But Richard watched him, and tried not to wonder where he went at night or how he'd gotten here. And Rosalie stood at the bar and watched it all, occasionally shaking her head, but saying nothing else to Richard.

"I know this is cheaper than the theatre," a waspish voice cut through Richard's introspection--he had been looking directly at the student when he had let his eyes become unfocused in thought--on the third night, "but unless you start throwing coins, I'll ask you to stare somewhere else."

Richard would have thought, the line coming from another, he was about to offer a price. But from his reactions to all comers, it was clear the obviously ignorant scholar didn't mean to charge for his services. But he decided to see if he could throw the man off balance, anyway.

"I only pay for what's worth the price," he said casually. The gears behind the scholar's eyes were working. Richard wondered how he'd managed to survive this long, when everything was so visible on his face.

"Do you want to fuck?"

Maybe that transparency was another defense. He might see the gears working, but he obviously didn't always know to what end.

They left the pub without another word.

***

Richard knew the steps. The grabbing and grasping, push and pull, he knew them all. That only half the movements were ones he normally associated with having a willing partner, unclothed and unarmed in the dark, only alarmed a small part of him. He acknowledged this distant feeling with the same attention he gave to the same part of him which found it more exciting, and went back to parry Alec's thrust.

Earlier, when they'd arrived at Richard's rooms, the scholar had gasped out as he fumbled with the buttons on Richard's breeches, "What's your name?"

"Name?" Richard mumbled against his neck.

"Yes, your name. Unless you want me to call out, 'Hey, you!' at the appropriate moment."

Richard paused, which had little to do with what the student was doing with his hands. This more than anything before marked the young man as an outsider. No Riversider would ever ask another's name. Names were sometimes given, but never demanded.

"Richard," he said, for most people knew his name anyway, and it made no difference to him. He waited to see if there was any reaction of recognition, or any further questions, but there was nothing. "What's yours?" he asked, feeling daring.

The scholar paused, as if it hadn't occurred to him that he would be asked to reciprocate with his own. "Alec," he finally said. If it was his real name Richard neither knew nor cared. It was who the scholar wanted to be, here and now. This was where he wanted to be. That was all that mattered to Richard.

And so, they grappled. The line between caresses and attacks seemed to be constantly moving. Richard was never sure when a delicate hand might turn into a punishing claw. He soon learned that Alec was less the delicate porcelain he'd first thought than already broken glass: he could still be damaged more, but you had to be careful not to end up bleeding all over him, as well.

Fortunately, Richard had never feared blood.

If Richard heard the whispers of another, he did not acknowledge them. The past was not something he dwelled on. When a fight was over, you did not brood about what might have been. You remembered your mistakes, drilled to cover the weaknesses, and tried not to make the same ones again. But every swordsman had a fatal flaw. Every one would fall someday. And you did not think about that, either. It just was.

Richard reached up at one point and grabbed those wonderfully long fingers with his own, sword calluses catching on the far thinner ones from a quill. He knew by now not to hold those hands down, as he thrust, but he licked at the fingers. When he opened his eyes, he found Alec staring back, unshed tears in his eyes.

"It was never... How...?" Alec never finished, just closed his eyes tightly, as if he could not stand to see whatever was on Richard's face.

Richard leaned down and kissed Alec just at the side of his mouth, careful not to be too passionate or too tender. He'd known many damaged people. He knew how painful affection could feel.

When they were done, they lay tangled in sheets and each other, sticky and wet. Normally, Richard preferred his bed partners not to lie too close, but Alec naturally fell to his left side, leaving his right arm free, and Richard couldn't bring himself to mind.

"These are nice rooms," Alec said, still sounding vaguely breathless.

There was no reason for Richard to say what he said, and much reason for him to stay silent, not least of which was that silence was his natural state. But he heard the word leave his mouth, and oddly found he did not wish it back. "Stay."

Alec said nothing, but turned his head into Richard's shoulder.

The room was drafty, and the men on the bed huddled together for warmth. Outside the air was crisp and clear and leaves began to fall from the trees.


End file.
